


Unwell

by Drag0nst0rm



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Finwe's Family is not Subtle, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Torture, Maglor's Family is Concerned, Reunions, They're just concerned about the wrong thing, and they should be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-11-01 03:17:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17859230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drag0nst0rm/pseuds/Drag0nst0rm
Summary: It's not that they're not happy that Maglor's been brought back to the Undying Lands. It's just that they're a little concerned about the fact that he's been taken into the house of someone he once kidnapped, and that no one's seen Maglor since.





	1. Cousins

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own the Silmarillion.
> 
> I was having some trouble with Gil-Galad, so I decided to finish this. The next chapter should be up tomorrow.

Maglor was not well.

That was, more or less, what Elrond told any visitors to his new home in Aman who expressed a desire to see his foster-father. Maglor was not well enough for visitors.

It was not a polite fiction, except perhaps as an understatement. Maglor was not well, a fact that was not in the least surprising when the millennia he had spent nearly entirely alone were considered. The absence of other company had been a terrible strain on an already strained mind, and that wasn’t even considering the more physical aspects; caring for oneself in the wilderness when only one hand had full functionality was no mean feat, and that wasn’t even considering the various mishaps that would have inevitably occurred and made things even harder. Even an elf could not suffer deprivation like that and not suffer some consequences. 

And that was even setting aside the … other matter. Maglor had refused to speak of it except very obliquely and never for long, his easily distracted thoughts shying away from it. Some scars, however, could not be explained away as accidents or as battle wounds incurred since the long ago day that Elrond had last checked his foster-father for wounds.

These were deliberate and cruel, and Elrond had caught enough of a nightmare, one of the ones that made Maglor thrash in his bed even as he kept his mouth stubbornly shut, to guess at the rest.

He didn’t know whether it had been elves looking for revenge, or later Numenoreans lashing out at an elf, or other Men giving into cruelty, or orcs, who needed no explanation.

Or dwarves, he supposed, but torture was one vice Aule’s children had never been given much to.

He also didn’t know how Maglor had gotten away.

He didn’t know, and it seemed cruel to press when there was so little he could do now.

There were old injuries that needed treating, and a mind scarred and all but broken that needed gentle handling.

Maglor was not well and had not been since the First Age of Arda, but Elrond had all the ages remaining to help him. He had failed Maedhros, failed Maglor once, failed Elros’s descendants one by one, and then failed Celebrian, but he wouldn’t fail Maglor again. Not here. Not now.

If there was anyone Maglor wanted to see, Elrond would of course welcome them, but cautious questioning about various relatives had sent Maglor into a panic that Elrond was determined not to repeat without cause. Maglor warily tolerated the presence of elves too young for him to remember, including Celebrian, and seemed truly comfortable only with Elrond, and even that was progress Elrond had once only dreamed of. Putting off potentially … fraught … meetings with the rest of the family seemed only prudent. Maglor was in no condition to deal with accusations and anger.

So Elrond welcomed the steady stream of distant cousins, or people it was at least simplest to just think of as cousins, and encouraged them to stay as long as they liked, and regretfully told them that Maglor was not well enough for company.

Some agreed that this was only to be expected; some privately thought that Maglor was just using this as an excuse.

And some … worried. 

 

“You do think he’s alright, don’t you?” Finrod asked Fingon as they rode out together after one such visit. “Or, I mean, obviously he’s not alright, but you don’t think … ” His worries did not quite have a concrete form but that Maglor was in the sole care of an elf he had once kidnapped had not escaped Finrod’s notice.

“He has the Valar’s blessing,” Fingon pointed out neutrally.

“The Valar do not always think of things as we do,” Finrod said, and carefully did not say anything else.

Fingon acknowledged this point with a tight nod.

“If it was Maedhros, you would have snuck in already.” It was not quite an accusation; it couldn’t be when Finrod when himself had so far failed to do so.

Fingon shifted uncomfortably. It was not the kind of discomfort that came from a direct hit.

Finrod gaped at him. “You tried.”

“Three times,” Fingon said glumly. “It wasn’t until the third that I realized he had some sort of ward up in that hallway to distract anyone who got too close. It was impressively subtle.”

“Melian’s line,” Finrod said ruefully.

“Or Finwe’s,” Fingon protested. “Our line is not without power.”

“Yes, but we are, as a general rule, without subtlety,” Finrod said wryly. 

“I broke into Angband!”

“Yes, by walking directly into it while singing and flying out on the back of the giant eagle. Impressive, yes. Subtle, not quite.”

“You broke into Angband.”

“And got caught.”

“Curufin!” Fingon said triumphantly.

Finrod reluctantly conceded the point. “Fine. But he was the only one. If we could return to the subject at hand?”

Fingon flushed a little. “Of course.”

“Could your father … ?” Finrod tried. “Surely Elrond would not refuse the High King.”

“Refuse? Never. Evade … “

“If we could convince him to make it a direct order?”

“It might work,” Fingon allowed. “Of course, that’s assuming Father actually has authority over him. Technically he’s only High King over … what, a quarter of Elrond?”

Finrod had to digest that for a moment. “You have a point. Which king has he sworn allegiance to?”

“Gil-Galad, once, but he’s not back from the Halls yet, and I’ve no idea whose side he’d take if he was.”

“So we’re back to where we started.” An idea struck Finrod. “Unless … He’s a parent, isn’t he? Has Nerdanel been to see him yet?”

Fingon fell into a startled silence for a moment. “Surely she has,” he finally said. “Only I can’t think when.” He considered it for a moment. “It’s better than anything else we’ve come up with.”

“It’s a plan then,” Finrod said with a bit of rising hope.

“A subtle one, even,” Fingon said with a sideways glance at him. 

“You’re not going to let that go, are you?”

“I can be subtle!”

“I don’t think yelling that in the middle of the road really makes your point.”


	2. Mother

Nerdanel hadn’t gone to see her last living son.

He would have changed. She knew that. She had seen it in her returned nieces and nephews. She was prepared to cope with that.

But if he had truly become the monster some whispered of - If there was nothing left of her boy at all -

She was not brave enough for that. Not yet. She had hoped, shamefully perhaps, that he would come visit her and take the decision out of her hands.

Then Finrod and Fingon had come to her, and all of that had flown abruptly out the window. It was one thing to linger when she thought she had forever; it was another thing entirely when she might be in danger of losing the last son she had left.

She tried visiting Elrond first. So many of their problems might have been averted if people had just sat down and talked with each other and actually listened when they did. She had to try.

Elrond regretfully told her what he had told everyone else: “Maglor is not well enough for visitors.”

“I’m not a visitor, I’m his mother,” she snapped. “If he’s not well, I want to help him.”

Elrond’s eyes seemed honestly pained, but he shook his head. “I’m sorry. In your place, I would feel just the same, but he truly cannot take any strain. As soon as he can bear visitors, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Alright,” she said. “I’ll wait.”

Her sons would have recognized the danger in her voice, but her sons weren’t there.

 

Nerdanel did wait. Specifically, she waited just outside Elrond’s main gate with a very large block of marble. It wasn’t an ideal workshop, but she would make do.

She’d gotten very used to making do in less than ideal conditions. 

So she got out her tools and started to chip away at the stone. 

 

It didn’t take long for Elrond to come out to see her. “Can I offer you a room inside?” 

It was rather more polite than she’d expected considering how in the way her work had already been.

She paused in said work. “Will that room have my son in it?”

“He is not well,” Elrond said quietly. 

She resumed her work. “Then I’m quite alright out here.”

 

Some people squeezed by her; others made use of lesser gates. She kept chipping away at the stone and waited for the inconvenience to provoke Elrond into making the next move.

Elrond proved very difficult to provoke.

 

She had half-expected him to attempt to have her removed, either by appealing to the High King or by making use of the warriors she knew he still kept in his household.

Instead, he had food sent out to her and quite frequently brought it himself. 

It was enough to make her hope that perhaps he was not so full of vengeance as her nephews feared him to be.

It wasn’t nearly enough to make her leave. 

 

The statue needed only a bit of polishing now. Elrond had come out to take a look at it.

It was a young boy, bright and innocent, hands strumming his harp and mouth wide in happy song.

“Maglor?” he asked.

“Makalaure,” she half-confirmed, half-corrected. “Before everything.” She turned to him, wearied beyond belief by all the long years and by her fearful hope now. “I know he did terrible things,” she said, “and I know he hurt you terribly in doing them. But I have to believe that there is still something of the kind boy I knew left in him.” Her voice trembled. “You’re a parent. You must understand, at least a little. You must. _Please._ Please, let me see my son.”

Elrond looked horrified. “Lady Nerdanel, I think there has been a very great misunderstanding. I don’t deny what he’s done, but I also saw how heavy the Oath lay upon him, and I saw how he suffered after millennia repenting alone. He tried very hard to be kind to my brother and I, and I bear no malice towards Maglor, only a very great deal of concern. There were times - “ His eyes turned dark for a moment. “There were times I was afraid he might follow Maedhros,” he said, holding her eyes steadfastly. The depth of grief there freshened her own. “He cannot bear what he once could.”

The picture he painted was very different than others she had heard. “I won’t confront him with old griefs,” she promised. “I only wish to see him.”

Elrond looked again to the statue and all the care she’d lavished upon it. “He’ll have to agree first,” he said. “But I think … I think it might be good for him.”

 

It was in the hush of the early hours of the morning that Elrond led Maglor out to the front gate so that they could be sure of avoiding most others. He stopped just outside the arch. “There. That’s what I wanted you to see.”

Maglor’s eyes traced the statue. The incredible detail. The love embedded in every inch.

“Your mother made that,” Elrond told him quietly. “She’s been petitioning to see you for months. She decided to make that while she waited.”

Maglor walked forward and touched it hesitantly.

“She wants to see you very badly,” Elrond said. He could have said, _I’m not sure what she’ll do next if I still refuse,_ but he didn’t want Maglor to do this out of fear of inconveniencing Elrond. He wanted Maglor to be well again, whatever that took.

“I’m not him anymore,” Maglor said. His eyes were locked on the statue’s face.

“I’m not who I was either,” Elrond pointed out. Long grief had worn him down, though only those who had known him in his youth might know it. “You were still happy enough to see me.”

There were arguments Maglor would have made to that if his mind was more healed, but he didn’t manage to muster any of them up now.

“I miss her,” he admitted. He hadn’t dared to admit that out loud for ages of the world.

“If you’d let me in, you wouldn’t have had to wait quite so long,” a trembling voice said from behind them, and then Nerdanel had pulled his head down onto her shoulder and cradled it with one hand, the other clinging to his back. Maglor held on just as tight, shoulders shaking.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he chanted.

“Shh,” she soothed. “I love you. I still love you. I’ll always love you. I love you.”

She caught Elrond’s eye over her son’s shoulder, even though her own were glazed with tears. _Thank you,_ she mouthed.

 

(Later, while Maglor rested, Elrond politely inquired if it would be alright to have the statue moved now. Nerdanel quickly agreed.

“Wherever you like,” she said. “I can have it sent back to my home, or you can keep it if you prefer. It’s the very least of what I owe you for bringing him here.” Another idea occurred to her. “While we’re arranging things, we should let Fingon and Finrod know that everything’s alright. I think Fingon was gearing up to do something … rash.”

Elrond seemed to consider Fingon’s previous history of actions that might fall under that heading, and it was his turn to very quickly agree. “I think that would be for the best.”)


End file.
